The New Seed of Rebellion

Posted on Tue Aug 19th, 2025 @ 10:10pm by Bruta Thort & Thane

3,156 words; about a 16 minute read

Chapter: Chapter VII: Uprooted
Location: Former Elenca Settlement, Öetrago
Timeline: Week One (Around a week after the battle)

A cold wind swept through the square; rustling the grass in the grove of what once was the Elenca settlement. While great effort had been made to tidy the area for the memorial, the dark scorch marks and dead patches in the greenery betrayed the scars of the intense battle that had been fought atop it. Outside of the square were the ghostly remnants of the settlement. The more permanent structures had been stripped and abandoned, while other buildings had been torn down completely leaving gaps that looked out into what remained of the forest beyond after the droids had burnt it.

Towards the rear of the assembled crowd, Jiljoo looked up at the remains of the great tree, charred and cracked down its centre. She wanted to turn and run away but she knew she had to be strong for her friends and comrades. She was drawn back to the ceremony by the tapping of a microphone. On the small podium, in front of a clean standing stone etched with names that was being unveiled, stood Bruta Thort, speaking in Basic to the mournful crowd in his practiced echoic voice.

"Many of you know me from years past. To some, I may still be a stranger, but I share a deep bond with the people of Elenca, as well as with those who gave their lives for the cause of Öetragan freedom.

I know this place now holds pain for many of you. But it was also a place of joy: a place where families were formed, knowledge was shared, and dreams were nurtured.

Though the Elenca Herd now prepares to migrate once more, after so many years rooted here, I hope this site will remain a place of remembrance.

To the brilliant minds, the kind hearts, and the restless souls who lived and fought for their home: I dedicate this memorial stone.

It can never replace the great tree that once stood here, nor the lives it sheltered. But perhaps it can stand as a new seed. The beginning of a new chapter for the Elenca, and for the ongoing fight for freedom on Öetrago.

I will carry that fight forward into the Senate. I will not let this loss go unanswered. Our people, our friendships, and our lives are not commodities. Never again should a corporation or a government be allowed to forget that.

Thank you all for standing here today. I know this isn’t easy. But together, we carry the memory forward."

Bruta stepped down from the podium, his eyes scanning the crowd with quiet resolve. As he made his way from the memorial stone, he offered Jiljoo a solemn nod, joining her in silent remembrance beneath the shadow of the tree that would forever be etched into their minds.

"All those names," Jiljoo said softly as Bruta approached, "Zey' should not just be sitting in stone."

Bruta reached out a hand momentarily to the young woman but then retreated it into his long black jacket, shielding his hands from the cold.

"I know," he answered instead, "They should be alive with us right now, living their lives here as always or wherever they lived before. None of this is fair and that is what I want to make them see in Mooko city and on Coruscant."

The wind stirred again, carrying the bitter scent of ash that sting clung to the earth.

Jiljoo lowered her gaze, her brow furrowed and she gingerly held on to her synthetic lek, like playing with a strand of hair.

“You’re going to leave again, aren’t you?”

Bruta hesitated, his breath catching.

“I have to,” he said quietly. “If I don't, then who will raise our cause to the people in power? The Vice Chancellor has given me a platform and I need to use it while I can.”

She turned away slightly, releasing her lek and instead hugging her arms tight around her as a shield against the wind. “But we need you here too.”

There was a long pause. The quiet hum of the wind in the trees carried distant murmurs from the gathering crowd behind them.

She knew he was right, but she felt helpless on her own.

"What about Llim?" she asked eventually, "Is he needed in ze' senate too?"

Even in the wind, it sounded as though Bruta let out a little huff of amusement.

"I think Llim likes being your hero more than being my assistant," his voice took on a more relaxed tone, "And I think it suits him better too. I even think his allergies are getting better with all his time spent out here."

Jiljoo gave a small, reluctant smile at that, her eyes still fixed on the scorched earth beneath their feet. She still was uncertain how she felt about that young man but could not ignore how he had traded places with her to spare her from Voq.

"Maybe," she said softly, before turning more confidently, "And Bomoor? Did you speak to him?"

"Not yet, he is still recovering," the Ithorian's eyes sunk a little as he spoke of his son's condition, "But I did speak to his friend and I have no doubts they will care for him well. Trust me, I am as eager to hear from him as you are."

The murmurs from the crowd behind them grew as people started to leave the memorial stone after paying their respects.

---

Doctor Buhggs had not joined the crowd at the stone. He lingered at the edge of the grove like a spectre out of phase, arms folded, coat buttoned all wrong, sharp head ever so slightly with each bitter gust of wind.

He said nothing during Bruta Thort’s speech.

He did not nod. He did not blink. He simply stood there, face unreadable save for the faint tightening at the corners of his too-narrow beak.

When the applause came—soft, respectful, undeserved—he snorted.

Not loud. Just enough.

Yllib-Senob’s name had been etched correctly. That surprised him. Someone must have checked.

He glanced once at the stone. Then away. Then, without ceremony, he crouched near a twisted piece of burnt root just outside the gathering. From the folds of his coat, he produced a small silver stylus—cheap, battered, half-melted at the tip. He stared at it in his palm for a long time. Then flicked it into the grass without a word.

"What am I doing," he muttered to no one, brushing his hands off like they had just touched something sentimental. "What am I even doing here."

A passing so-called rebel offered him a half-bow, murmuring thanks. Buhggs scowled and shooed him off with a dismissive flick.

"I do not do reverence," he said flatly to no-one. "Especially not for plans that did not work."

Still, he did not leave.

He hovered like a fleshfly at a settling battlefield—never resting, never quite drawing attention, but never far enough away not to be noticed.

He did not like how people were speaking about sacrifice. About courage. About legacy.

He especially did not like how many times he had heard Bruta Thort’s name in the last thirty minutes. That tone. That emerging consensus.

As if grief had already been poured into some neat little amphora and labelled: 'Senatorial Candidate, Myagil sector, Centrality-aligned.'

Doctor Buhggs, of course, was not blind to what was coming. In fact, the sheer predictability of it made him grind his beak.

Eventually, when the last eulogy had settled and the crowd thinned into smaller clusters of tear-streaked resolve, Buhggs moved. Not toward the stone, but toward Bruta.

He did not interrupt the conversations—just loomed nearby waiting his chance. And when there was the slightest opening, he slid in sideways with all the grace of a malfunctioning hovercart.

"You know," he said, eyes half-lidded, voice dry as desert dust, "it was a touching speech. All that stuff about memory, rebirth, shared struggle... Very moving. If I did not know better, I would think you were about to announce your own sainthood.”

He did not smile.

“But then I remembered,” he added, “you are not just grieving. You are positioning. And the Vice Chancellor backing a grassroots Ithorian martyr movement? Well, that is good press for everyone, is it not?”

He did not accuse. Not quite.

There was even a glint of something approving in his eye—barely visible under the scowl.

“Tell me, Bruta,” he continued, lowering his voice just enough to be unpleasantly conspiratorial, “when Damask Hul sends emissaries and trade promises and—stars forbid—another commemorative plaque, should I clap louder? Or just start preparing my evacuation notes?” He crossed his arms across his narrow chest. “And do not tell me it is not politics."

Bruta's expression shifted: softness giving way to confusion, then settling into a guarded stillness. He let the last comment hang between them, words gathering, poised to reply. But before they could take form, a flash of silver and green swept through the space between them, like another blustery burst of wind.

"Zat’ is not fair, Doctor!" Jiljoo snapped, releasing the fire Bruta had earlier managed to temper in her. "It was not Bruta who made zis’ about politics! Ze’ moment our government sided with ze’ company over its people, zey’ showed us zey’ are not fit to lead." She threw a hand toward the others nearby. "At least he has a chance to do something! We tried fighting with force and what did it get us?"

“Listen, both of you,” he said, his voice returning to a calm, paternal register, “I am under no illusion that my presence here is welcomed by everyone. As I once explained to Yllib-Senob when we first met, I left Mumin, Bomoor, and the herd behind to silence the rumours; those superstitions that were making life unbearable. I thought if I became the villain, maybe the rest of you could live in peace. And, in truth, it was easier to walk away.”

He paused, his words catching slightly. “Now, all these years later, I return and the Elenca way of life is under threat. Mumin is dead. The herd has fractured.”

He winced, but held his composure. “Maybe I am cursed. Or maybe I should have stayed, built something different here with all of you. But whether near or far, I have always fought for the survival of the Öetragan way. Whatever the Vice Chancellor’s motives, he’s given me a platform to raise our voice. And believe me, this is not about my personal advancement.”

Buhggs stared at Bruta for a long moment after the Ithorian’s reply, narrow pupils unblinking. Then he clicked his beak softly, the sound somewhere between disapproval and reluctant acceptance.

“Oh, I believe you,” he said finally, straightening his coat with a series of jerky, unnecessary tugs. “You wouldn’t know how to run a personal advancement campaign if someone air-dropped the instruction manual onto your head.” His voice was still dry, but the acid had lost some of its bite. “And I suppose - if the Vice Chancellor wants to burn political capital putting you in front of the galaxy - well, that’s a fine way to spend their time and not mine.” He flicked a glance at Jiljoo. “Still don’t like speeches, though.”

Before either of them could respond, a voice rang out from behind, deep and melodic, rippling in that doubled Ithorese timbre.

"Bruta Thort speaks with the wind of all our herds. Mumin walks with him still, and her spirit will not be scattered by flame or blaster. We follow that wind, wherever it carries us."

The speaker was an older rebel in patched armaments that he has kept affixed since the battle, his tall frame silhouetted against the grove’s fractured skyline. His words drew murmurs of assent from nearby Ithorians, some bowing their long necks in shared reverence.

Buhggs exhaled sharply through his nostrils and muttered. “Great. Now we’ve got poetry.” But, he did not walk away. His eyes tracked the old rebel for a beat longer than necessary before he looked back at Bruta. “Well, there you go, your worship. Folk hero status confirmed. Don’t make me regret betting my last shred of scientific reputation on you.”

He glanced past them toward the remnants of the Elenca settlement, already calculating what could be salvaged, clearly committed to his own part on his adopted world. “Now, what’s next? Because unless we plan on erecting more statues, perhaps of our glorious saviour here, we’re going to need a functional supply chain, a comms network..."

The wind gusted again, carrying with it the faint scent of ash and salt. Buhggs tightened his coat, his beak dipping just enough to hide the faintest flicker of something softer. His eyes had come to rest on the spot he and Jiljoo had been with Yllib-Senob, and he seemed to drain of any fire in that moment.

Jiljoo watched him carefully, feeling the adrenaline from the confrontation slowly ebbing as she saw the sadness in his actions that his words could not express.

"We will rebuild, doctor," she stated calmly, in a moment of calm in the wind, "Whether it takes months or years, we will get zere'. Free Öetrago lives on, statues or no. But only if we all believe in it."

The older rebel grumbled an agreement, while Bruta's expression darkened slightly and he stepped a fraction closer to the young woman.

"Are you sure you want to continue with the rebellion?" his voice was more hushed and concerned, "Voq may be gone, but the ones that devastated the rest of the movement in Hopü Forest still remain. I don't want to see you hurt..."

The fiery passion rose again, but now directed at the diplomat.

"You are not my father, Mr Thort!" she flourished a hand in the air with angry dismissal and angled herself away, "It iz' not your responsibility to shield me from harm or to fight my battles. Go and fight your battles and we will remain to fight ours."

"I..." Bruta began, "I'm sorry Jiljoo. I do not want us to be at odds or to diminish your own sense of agency. I know you will do what is best for yourself and for our people here."

He turned to Buhggs, still muttering silently to himself as he looked at the former settlement, but clearly with an ear still on the conversation.

"You have my apologies too, doctor. My speech and that statue are no substitute for what was lost and I should have known it would appear shallow. Take it not for what it is, but for the spirit in which it is given; as a promise that you can call on me and that I will answer."

Buhggs tilted his narrow head, regarding Bruta in silence for a moment longer before giving a sharp flick of his hand.

“Fine. Fine. You’ve said your piece, and I’ll take you at your word, for now. But let’s not mistake words for change. I’ve seen how this galaxy works. Grand declarations are cheap, Bruta Thort. Action is the rare commodity.”

He leaned in slightly, his beak clicking faintly as his voice lowered. “Back there, when the fire was thick and the droids were marching us into the dirt, it wasn’t speeches or politicians that turned the tide, or even the blood of our friends. It was those Jedi - or whatever they were - carving swathes through metal like it was paper. Never met them before, but they didn’t look like anything I’ve read in the archives. Didn’t matter. They had power. Real, undeniable power. And power is what made the difference.”

Straightening again, he tucked his hands into the folds of his coat. “So, call me cynical, call me sour - curse at me or cry at me - but I’ll believe in your Senate platform and your fine new friends when I see it all do more than sound nice over a memorial stone.” He gave a sharp snort. “The proof’s in the broth, not the recipe... But I sincerely hope you proof me wrong. You'll rarely hear me say that."

Buhggs let the words hang for a moment, then gave a low rasp through his beak and shifted his stance, not waiting for a reply. The sharpness in his eye softened as he turned toward Jiljoo, catching her just as she was hugging her arms tighter against the wind.

“Still, no sense standing here like philosophers arguing over stones and slogans,” he said, his tone less barbed now. “We’ve got work. Real work." He jabbed a talon toward the scarred grove beyond. “This planet is still bleeding, and it’s ours to stitch back together. That means clearing, rebuilding, feeding. Not for the Republic, or anyone else. For us.”

His gaze lingered on her, more earnest than mocking. “Mumin’s sacrifice deserves that. Yllib-Senob’s too, ridiculous hat and all. If we can’t honour them with something better than a name on a rock, then we’ve learned nothing.” He pulled his coat tighter and gave a curt nod, almost conspiratorial. “This is just the start, madam. The hard part comes now. So let’s get to it - before someone else tries to claim our home for themselves or tries to pretend I'm their friend.”

Jiljoo did not answer but she set her posture askew, arms still crossed and allowing an weak, equally-tilted smile to break out. She nodded to the H'nemthe before turning to Bruta expectantly, hoping the two of her men would make up.

"Quite right, quite right," Bruta repeated with a respectful nod, "Then let me, like the Elenca, migrate on and return when I have something of greater value to offer in their memory."

The doctor's eyes lingered on Bruta for a beat, sharp but not hostile. “You’ve taken the first step. Good. Now let’s see if you can walk the rest of the path without tripping over politics.”

Bruta offered a breath of amusement from his mouths before drawing himself up.

"Then I will make a quiet exit, without stopping to shake any more hands or kiss any babies. But, in all seriousness, take care as you rebuild; Mumin believed in this cause but, more than anything, she believed in the people she nurtured. Don't wither before you have had a chance to bloom."

With that, he drew his jacket up and began the walk back to his transport, back to Mooko City and then offworld. Behind him he left a place to call home, a loyal assistant and many fierce friends. Ahead was uncertainty, but a chance to make things right for them, for Mumin and, perhaps most on his mind now, Bomoor.

 

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